A Challenging Year
by purplecleric
Summary: This is a collection of my responses to the monthly challenges posted on Horizon. Some were word prompts, some 'complete the scene', all had a limit of 500 words.
1. Resolution

_A/N - Word Prompt 'Resolution'_

Resolution

Light years.

This is the distance between stars. It was the lengths they had travelled and the time it had taken to come this far. So very far. A measurement that was unable to encompass the changes within them or between them.

Spacials.

This is the distance from orbit to planet. The range a dying ship travels to its eventual demise.

Kilometres.

This is the distance between forest and the final showdown. The space between woods and would have been.

Metres.

This is the distance between friend and foe. It is a fundamental unit of length that fails to define who is what.

Centimetres.

This is the distance between barrel and blood. How far a blast travels until it severs the bonds of friendship, until trust and truth and lies and love are beyond measurement.

Millimetres.

This is the distance between two men. The distance between betrayal and loyalty; between a friend lost, a friend found, a friend lost again. This is the distance between the shock and the realisation. This is the distance between a sigh and a smile.

And the smallest distance of them all is one so small it has never been measured, never been named.

This is the distance between life and death.


	2. Sweet

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _The tap-tap of heels heralded Jenna's arrival on the flight deck of the Liberator. Hastily, Avon cleared the display on his terminal and, as a cover for his guilt, went on the attack._

" _You're late."_

Sweet

The tap-tap of heels heralded Jenna's arrival on the flight deck of the Liberator. Hastily, Avon cleared the display on his terminal and, as a cover for his guilt, went on the attack.

"You're late."

He stalked off, not deigning to wait for her reply. Jenna resisted the urge to poke her tongue out at his retreating back and then turned her attention to his console. What was he up to now?

She fiddled around with commands and settings while her mind explored possibilities. A bolthole was the most probable – he'd made no secret of his wish to leave. And because she was irritated with him, less charitable thoughts crossed her mind; he was selling them out, he was sabotaging the systems. These thoughts fuelled her anger and she imagined even more sinister and increasingly improbable scenarios, her hands working furiously on the keys.

More through luck than skill, the terminal suddenly came to life.

Jenna's brow furrowed as she took in the elegant script that scrolled across the screen. "Vintage Delights" the words declared and now her imaginings were taking a stroll down a rather salacious side street. After all, exactly what 'delights' would an uptight alpha male with a taste for leather indulge in? It would be just like him to use the guise of 'vintage' to add a pretentious air to something more sordid.

Curiosity now raging, Jenna selected the 'most recent indulgence' option and steeled herself against what secrets it might reveal.

"Delicious!" the screen screamed as a plethora of neon-bright strangely organic shapes cascaded down the viewer. Bemused, Jenna searched for more information.

"Candy Crush – the twenty-first century craze that had everyone from politicians to the proletariat addicted."

Jenna smiled with a malicious delight that was far from vintage, but nevertheless harked back to ancient times.

"Sweet!"


	3. By Any Other Name

_A/N - Word prompt 'Red'_

By Any Other Name

The raid on the bio-lab had yielded many wonders but none like the one that held the crew of the Liberator spell-bound as they gathered around the bench. Ever the leader, Blake was the first to break the silence.

"It's powerful."

His mind summoned up visions of a potent symbol blazoned across banners, rallying the rebels. Jenna leaned forward to inhale the heady perfume, her eyes closing for a moment before she coyly glanced up at Blake. Her voice was breathy.

"It does stir passion."

Vila snorted. Trust those two to get carried away with idealism and fantasy and ignore the true potential before them. He rubbed his hands in glee.

"It's important, gotta be worth a lot."

Ignoring them, Cally concentrated, her long, pale finger reaching out to stroke the velvety-soft texture. It roused something within her, called out to her. Reluctantly, she broke contact.

"It's a message."

Gan couldn't see what all the fuss was about. It wouldn't fill an empty belly, was too fragile to make a tool, wouldn't keep you dry and warm.

"It's useless."

He glanced at Avon, waiting for the inevitable retort. Avon studied sharp barbs concealed behind blood-rich beauty with morbid fascination.

"It's deceit... and danger."

His hostile words shattered the thrall and the crew became aware of alarms, shouting and the thud of heavy boots. They scrabbled for more tangible bounty as Blake barked into his communicator.

"Orac! Teleport. Now!"

With a shimmer the crew disappeared, leaving behind a single red rose.


	4. Committed to the Cause

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _Blake's feet scrabbled in the loose shale, trying to gain purchase on the slope as he attempted to escape from the strong arms pulling him down._

" _You don't understand," he protested._

Committed to the Cause

Blake's feet scrabbled in the loose shale, trying to gain purchase on the slope as he attempted to escape from the strong arms pulling him down.

"You don't understand," he protested.

"Why don't you explain it to me then?" a gruff voice replied. The speaker, a burly man dressed in the quasi-military garb of the Security Patrol, gave a grunt of satisfaction as he succeeded in getting a firm grip on Blake's tunic. Blake found himself sliding down, all the progress he had made lost under the steady pull of beefy biceps. Another man chimed in.

"Yeah, tell, we love a good story."

The chirpy voice held a note of nervousness and Blake was reminded for a moment of Vila. This thought made him hesitate; the kick he was about to send into the smaller man's face failing to make contact as the Security Patrol pressed home the advantage and dragged him to the ground.

Blake breathed in a mouthful of the dust that had been stirred up in the scuffle and his words, when they came, lost their impact in the coughing.

"I'm vital to the Cause. I belong with them..."

He gestured to the bowl in the landscape formed by a long abandoned mining excavation and the group of people, vehicles and equipment gathered there. It was too far away to make out the faces, but the gaudy garb and sense of common purpose was very familiar to Blake.

"Our instructions are that no-one is to disturb the operation." This was the larger man, who made himself even bigger as he puffed up with self-importance. "It's already behind schedule."

"But I'm Blake, their leader!"

The sight of Blake safely restrained in his partner's strong grip made the smaller man bold.

"I don't care if you're Master of the Universe, you can't -"

He was cut off as his comms unit crackled into life.

"Base to Unit Two, over."

The small man shot a quick glance at his partner seeking permission to answer, and at the nodded consent, replied.

"Unit Two to Base, over."

"Update on the perimeter breach, over."

"Situation contained." He took a quick look as if to reassure himself and at the sight of the big curly-haired man being escorted away by his even bigger partner, he continued. "Intruder detained, over."

"One of our regulars?"

Responding in kind to the less formal tone, the little man answered.

"Nah, some bloke calling himself Blake."

"Damn! Gareth's been on the sauce again, I told him it was the Dr Who location shoot today. Blakes Seven aren't filming 'til Thursday."


	5. I Thought I heard a Bluebird Sing

_A/N - word prompt 'Red'_

I Thought I Heard A Bluebird Sing

Somewhere over the rainbow...

Violet flowers nod their heads in the gentle breeze, in time with Cally's dance. She is alone, but in her head a chorus sings – a chorus of clones, scaling the ranges of notes, lyrics and emotion. Cally delights.

Indigo skies deepen to midnight and the primitives marvel at the new star in the heavens. Its sight spawns tales of angels and messiahs and the Liberator sails on.

Blue digits scroll across the screen and Avon studies them intently. Yes, it is working, he's made the breakthrough! He can't wait to tell Anna, to revel in the admiration in her eyes. There is warmth in Avon's smile.

Green leaves tremble, dappling golden sunlight in the glade and the babble and chuckle of the brook is mirrored in his companions' conversations. They head out of the forest, into the hills, away from the domes. Blake is free.

Yellow gold shines almost as sweetly as his girl's eyes as Vila slips the ring on her finger. A ring he has bought. His own eyes twinkle as he schemes how to liberate the rest of the jewellery from the store. Vila is secure.

Orange-sweet fruit flesh melts in his mouth and the juice runs down Gan's chin. The harvest is good this year. He hugs his woman to him, giving a little extra squeeze. Gan makes plans.

Red lights flash and the proximity alarms sound. Jenna ignores them, concentrating on steering the ship. Yes! She's made it! Another patrol evaded, more cargo delivered. She pumps a salute at her crew. Jenna is triumphant.

But there are no rainbows.

This is the twenty – third century where men must fight for freedom, must fight the Federation for real dreams, and where some men must fight the enemy within.

They seldom win.


	6. Memento Mori

_A/N - word prompt 'Red'_

Memento Mori

Avon pauses as he approaches the hut, shaking his head in disbelief. They'd made a fire! The smoke signal, the heat signature... of all the stupid things to do. Sometimes he doubts their determination to survive. His hand slips into his pocket, taking out the small square reminder of why he battles on. As he fingers this souvenir he opens his mind to the past, to the memories.

They'd mocked him, couldn't comprehend its significance.

But he remembers how it felt, how he felt when he wore it. How he stood a little straighter, walked a little taller; the flamboyance a far cry from the dull drone of the dome he had been. He remembers its subtle protection, the deceptive softness concealing a resilience more enduring than his own. And he remembers the smooth, supple sensation of skin upon skin so reminiscent of her caress, her skin. The colour evoked the fine wine they had shared, the colour of her lips freshly bruised from a kiss, the public blush when their eyes first met, the private flush when their bodies followed suit. It's the warm rich pulse of passion and plans, of daring and dreams.

It's a reminder of the man he'd hoped to be, a memento of the man he'd almost been.

Avon closes his eyes and sighs – opens them to see two bounty hunters sneak into the hut. He takes a deep breath, shuts his mind and draws his gun. His voice is cold.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

And amongst the scrubby coarse grass of Gauda Prime, a scrap of worn red leather lies discarded.


	7. No Regrets

_A/N - word prompt 'Mad' and building on the story 'The Red Room' by a fellow Horizon member_

No Regrets

Zen monitored space; its detectors perceiving no threat, no anomalies. Zen monitored the ship; sensors confirmed the hull's integrity, all inboard systems operative, the auto –repair circuits performing only routine maintenance. No life forms detected apart from the five organics that comprised the crew.

Zen monitored them; their movements, their routines and reactions, every change in oxygen and nutrient intake, their rest and activity levels. And, in accordance with its programming, it had opened the red room to each, just as the System had decreed was necessary for the optimal functioning of each Alta organic component.

But these were no Altas – created, grown, trained and incorporated into a strictly ordered environment. Zen had provided the emotional element its programming dictated, from information gleaned through its neural interfaces, but it had not been prepared for the complexities of the non-Alta mindscape, had insufficient data to predict the consequences.

It could only track the increased frequency that each traversed the corridor which contained the red room. It could only record the length of time each remained motionless outside the red door, the number of times that attempts were made to open that door, that cheeks were pressed against its cold surface, that fingers trailed and fists pounded on its unrelenting hardness.

And it could only record the disturbance to their sleep cycles, the increased respiration and restlessness, the names cried out. Could only monitor the mute, motionless, wakeful hours spent in the dark.

It could not feel what Gan feels. Zen had no heart to swell at the sight of his woman or the love in her eyes. It had no hands to touch soft skin and silky hair. No hands to try to claw the implant and the memories of murder from its mind.

It could not feel what Jenna feels. Zen had no glands to flood its system with adrenaline, no blood to pump, no pride to feel, no sense of accomplishment when it navigated the ship. It had no ability to hope and dream, no capacity for increasing despair as those possibilities became evermore remote.

It could not feel what Vila feels. Zen had no stomach to flutter with excitement, no fingers to twitch and fidget with anticipation, no lips to smile with joy, no belly to shake with laughter. It had no muscles to shiver, no skin to sweat, no mouth to go dry, no imagination to conjure dread.

It could not feel what Cally feels. Zen had no kin, no community, no sense of belonging, no hands to hold another, no mind to meld or muse, it could only deal with the tangible. Its programming did not include isolation and loss.

It could not feel what Avon feels. To Zen, warmth was a number on a temperature scale; it had no body to press against another, no smile to exchange, no eyes to dance with delight, no life to share. It had no gut to twist with guilt, was never forced to contravene its programming or to deal with the inevitable conflict.

It could not feel what Blake feels. Zen had no soul to burn with passion, no cause to believe in, no need to make things different. Its sensors did not detect injustice, its databanks were uncorrupted, it had no morals to outrage, no family to mourn, no blood to spill.

Zen could not regret having opened the door to the highs and lows of emotion within each of the crew. It could only run the data through its logic circuits and act on the conclusion. One brief exposure had a detrimental effect on the efficiency of the crew so the red door must remain closed. As an ancient Bard had once put it:

"That way madness lies ... no more of that."


	8. Playing with Fire

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _They crouched uncomfortably under the bench. Dayna opened her mouth to speak but Tarrant silenced her with a long finger held to his lips. Her eyes widened as she heard the noise. Ears straining, holding their breath, they listened to the sound of footsteps drawing near._

Playing with Fire

They crouched uncomfortably under the bench. Dayna opened her mouth to speak but Tarrant silenced her with a long finger held to his lips. Her eyes widened as she heard the noise. Ears straining, holding their breath, they listened to the sound of footsteps drawing near.

It had seemed like a good idea; just a bit of fun, a way to slice through the oppressive tension that hung over Xenon base. They had been giggling as they ran through the corridors looking for the perfect private place. Tarrant had grabbed Dayna's hand to pull her into Dorian's lab, the abrupt action bring them close, close enough to feel panting breaths on flushed cheeks, to see eyes shine in the dim light. Usually Avon was the only one who used the lab but it was empty now as Avon, yet again, was brooding in his room. Sounds of movement in the corridor had them seeking further concealment and, as they huddled close, the excitement had died.

Tarrant thought of his brother, of being in Deeta's mind as he sheltered in the door way, listening to Vinni's taunts. He thought of the duel, of hearing those final words, of feeling Deeta die. Tarrant shuddered.

The slow measured tread continued along the corridor and Dayna half-expected to hear an eerie android voice demand the location of Orac. As the steps continued, she wondered when running and hiding had taken the place of standing up and fighting, when the flames of her youth had been smothered by the relentless struggle for survival and whether it would ever end.

They were not the only ones listening to the footsteps.

The instigator of this latest folly hugged his knees and tried to hold back the tears. Beads of sweat formed on Vila's brow as he tried to make himself smaller. His body shook although he knew he was safe in the storage closet, was not on the shuttle listening to Avon's heavy boots on the metal rungs of the ladder, could not hear the silky voice of betrayal. He slumped in resignation, knowing part of him would never leave that shuttle.

Soolin stalked along the corridor; senses on high alert, eyes darting about, her instincts kicking in. She was not aware of when silliness had become serious, when play had become predation; she only knew the hunt was on, that a lifetime of habit and training had taken over. Stealthily she slid her gun from the holster. A door opened and, with reflexes as sharp as ever, Soolin aimed at the emerging figure.

Avon eyed the gun and one eyebrow quirked as he lifted his gaze to Soolin's face. They regarded each other in silence until Soolin lowered her weapon, suddenly embarrassed under his cold, hard scrutiny. His voice matched his stare;

"Playtime's over. We've got to set the explosives."

He swivelled and Soolin watched Avon depart, wondering when he had started looking so old, when he had last played, if he ever had. The sound of his voice had brought the rest of the crew out from concealment and Dayna slapped Vila's shoulder smartly.

"I told you this was a stupid idea."

Vila bristled in response.

"Hey! I just provided the booze. The last of it, remember? My private stash. And I wasn't the only one reminiscing about childhood days, about the games we used to play. And it wasn't me who suggested..."

His voice trailed off and they turned, as one, to Tarrant, who blushed under the weight of their accusations. His grin lacked its usual confidence as he admitted;

"OK , maybe Hide and Seek wasn't the best choice..."


	9. Fool

_A/N - word prompt 'Fool'_

 **Fool**

Avon's stomach fluttered with excitement. Freedom City certainly catered to all tastes. He hadn't felt this alive in years, not since stealing a fortune from the Federation. He hadn't had a confederate then and he had to admit scheming with Vila had been fun.

Almost as much fun as listening to the roulette wheel spin, as listening to the croupier announce another win, as listening to Vila ham it up. He could certainly put on an act. Avon was surprised the others hadn't seen through him yet, but they seemed content to carry on believing Vila was a fool.

The excitement had soured as Vila pushed for one more spin, too high on success to realise they were drawing unwanted attention. Sometimes that man could be the idiot he pretended to be. It was not about the money, there was plenty in the treasure room and this was far too easy. It was about the challenge of beating the system, the opportunity to prove he was not Blake's puppet, that he still could act independently and in his own interest, that the option remained open to him. Point proved, it was time to move on.

Old boy!

Vila was really pushing it, taking liberties like that. They were not equals, would never be. Vila was merely a resource to be used, admittedly an entertaining one. Vila's crowing had left a bitter taste in Avon's mouth so, while he waited for their winnings to be packaged, he sought something sweeter. The food here was to be commended, particularly the desserts. Saliva flooded his mouth in anticipation as he tried to decide which he would sample. He was in the mood for something tart but rich, sweet but sour, something complex to stimulate his taste buds unlike the bland food available on the Liberator.

He was just about to order the citrus and dark chocolate torte when he spotted the last item on the menu. He hadn't had that in years, not since he was a child. These days his palate ran to more sophisticated dishes but he felt a sudden hankering for the simple comfort food of his childhood. He felt a little embarrassed as he dipped his spoon into the sweet pink pudding, a feeling lost as the creamy smoothness melted in his mouth and nostalgia wrapped itself around him like a soft blanket.

Life had been straightforward then, people had been less complicated. His parents, polite and remote, had made their expectations clear, tutors mapped out his learning and computers provided play in the form of puzzles and strategy games. For everything else there was Nanny; illiterate but wise, full of practicalities, puddings and promises always kept.

"...has agreed to challenge the Klute at speed chess."

Avon spat out the pudding in shock and the memories of childhood with it.

Fool!

He wasn't sure if he meant dessert, Vila or himself.


	10. Folly

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _Servalan moved with feline grace towards Avon who remained seated. Her immaculately manicured nails slid across the smooth polished surface of the table before trailing across his face. She stopped behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she lowered her head to speak softly in his ear._

" _Did you really think you could outwit me?"_

 **Folly**

Servalan moved with feline grace towards Avon who remained seated. Her immaculately manicured nails slid across the smooth polished surface of the table before trailing across his face. She stopped behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she lowered her head to speak softly in his ear.

"Did you really think you could outwit me?"

Avon twisted as he rose abruptly from the chair and they stood toe to toe. He looked into her dark eyes that were full of danger and desire, power and promise, and saw himself reflected there. He dipped his head until he could feel their breath mingle, could see her painted lips part. His voice was just as quiet as hers had been, but there was no softness, only steel.

"And did you really think I could be distracted?"

Avon clasped her to him, claiming her mouth in a fierce kiss, before breaking away so suddenly that Servalan sagged momentarily at the loss. She recovered quickly, striking an elegant pose.

"Distracted?"

Wiping the lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand, Avon wondered how she could seem so invincible while wearing a thin slip of silk. He felt oddly exposed in contrast, despite his heavy layers. He bolstered himself with a snarl.

"Do you think I would not see through such obvious deceptions of alternate realities and manufactured dreams?"

His voice took on a more strident tone.

"Or that convoluted tales of small storage buildings and utility closets, infantile games and dessert would divert my attention from the truth? "

Avon took a deliberate step forward, then another. There was something in his manner that exuded menace and Servalan felt the urge to back away. He continued:

"I know the truth. I know –"

It was Servalan's turn to inject a note of scorn into her voice, a valiant attempt to regain lost ground.

"Just what do you think you know?"

"I know _he's_ dead. I know they're all dead. I cannot refute the evidence of my senses; the sight, the sounds, the smell. The feeling as the blasters tore..." Avon faltered, but quickly recovered. " _I_ am dead. And so, my dear outwitted Servalan, are you. It's the only logical conclusion."

Servalan's mind reeled. Questions, there were so many questions. Never one to dwell on the past, she shoved aside the 'hows' and 'whys' and asked;

"Then where are we? Hell?"

Avon smiled; a chilling smile, an echo of his final living smile.

"Much worse..." His voice dropped to a whisper and despite herself, Servalan leaned closer to catch his words. "We're in the mind of a fanfic writer."


	11. Walk a Mile

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _He was in real trouble now. Vila took another look and felt the panic rise. How was he going to explain this? More importantly, would he live long enough to explain? His eyes darted about looking for somewhere to hide._

 **Walk a Mile**

He was in real trouble now. Vila took another look and felt the panic rise. How was he going to explain this? More importantly, would he live long enough to explain? His eyes darted about looking for somewhere to hide, but Avon knew Xenon Base too well.

Vila picked up the sleeveless jacket, surprised again at its weight. The material was sticky to his touch and it reeked with the unmistakeable smell of alcohol. It had been an accident but Avon wouldn't see it that way.

"VILA!"

Vila's hands clenched, the metal studs of the jacket digging into his palms. Anyone else ... but not Avon, not since the shuttle.

He'd only wanted to understand.

The rest of the crew were off trying to recruit takers for this new alliance Avon was trying to put together. Vila was left moping about the base, nursing a bottle of particularly potent liqueur and a bellyful of bitterness and betrayal.

" _Walk a mile in their shoes,"_ that's what his mum had always said when people behaved badly. That's what he'd been trying to do when he spotted the jacket. They must be wearing the green coveralls again, probably thought they looked more of a team, quasi-military even. Vila scoffed and looked at the jacket again. Well, it wasn't shoes but...

The first thing that had struck him was the weight. His shoulders sagged as heavy fabric laden with metal trim dragged them down. And that was only the jacket. He thought of the jumpsuit and the boots too. Avon's shoulders never sagged, his feet never dragged.

" _Walk a mile..."_ Vila did. Well, maybe not a mile but he moved around the room mimicking Avon's stance and gestures with uncanny accuracy. His lips twisted into that familiar 'smile' and he spoke in a fair imitation of _that_ voice.

"As you always say, Vila – you know you are safe with me."

For a brief terrifying moment, Vila _became_ Avon. The burden of heavy clothing was nothing compared to the burden of responsibility, in fact he carried their weight as a penance for his failures. And they were so much more. They were the armour, the bristling aggressive porcupine quills, which hid the vulnerable creature within. They were the exoskeleton that kept him standing as the man crumbled inside. They were the disguise that hid broken promises and lost dreams.

Vila tore off the jacket and made a grab for the bottle but his tear-veiled eyes made him clumsy. The bottle toppled, pouring its contents over the jacket. Vila sank to the floor, clutched the spoiled fabric to his chest, and sobbed.

"VILA!"

At the sound of Avon's voice, Vila shot to his feet. He was in real trouble now; there was nowhere to hide himself, the jacket -or his knowledge.

"There you are ..."

Avon's voice trailed off as he looked at Vila. He strode across the room, as imposing in green as he was in black. Vila felt his feet stir with the urge to flee. Avon stopped, inches away; too close for comfort, close enough to smell the booze, to see the tears. Avon stared at him, his eyes dark and cold, seeing all.

The unbearable silence strung out between them. Vila was about to break when Avon gently took the jacket from his trembling hands. The hard stare softened momentarily as Avon gave a quick nod, and left the room without speaking a word.


	12. States of Matter

_A/N - word prompt 'Matter'_

 **States of Matter**

One can almost hear Orac's precise, fussy tones delivering the lecture:

" _A Solid ... closely packed..._ _the_ _forces between_ _are strong so they cannot move freely, can only vibrate... "_

Avon's eyes flashed. Another showdown with Blake on the flight deck and again he is beaten; logic no match for idealism and motives that are pure. He bristles and blusters yet he stays.

"... _a stable, definite shape..."_

"Well done, Avon!" Another triumph, another Federation stronghold destroyed. Avon hides his pleasure at Blake's words behind a contemptuous smile. They are a team, with complementary skills and common purpose, though their reasons differ. He belongs here - even if he wishes he didn't.

" _... can only change by force, as when broken or cut."_

Gan's empty chair seems to hold greater importance than the man himself. Tempers flare and the arguments grow bitter. Blake is the one beaten now; on his knees in an empty room, with only Avon's cold comfort.

" _A Liquid... incompressible..."_

Dayna is no problem, she accepts his authority readily. But Tarrant ... Ultimately he is no match for Avon's intellect and arrogance.

" _...intermolecular forces are still important, but have enough energy to move relative to each other..."_

With Blake gone, there is no common purpose. Personal matters come to the fore; Dayna's vendetta, Tarrant's brother, Vila's dreams, Cally's isolation and Anna...

" _...the shape is not definite but is determined by its container."_

Only the Liberator holds them together. None willing to give up its power, the edge it gives them, its shelter and security.

" _... liquids become gas by heating at constant pressure..."_

Having gained his prize, Avon discovers it is not enough. Or maybe too much; its legacy is an uncomfortable burden. Too often he finds his thoughts turning to Blake.

" _A Gas ...enough energy that the effect of intermolecular forces is small..."_

Habit and the need to survive is all that is keeping them together now the Liberator is lost.

" _...no definite shape or volume..."_

Only his iron will, or maybe his desperation, maintains the facsimile of the team they had been, the man he had been.

" _... the distance between neighbouring molecules is much greater..."_

Blake is a memory, a shade from the past, so far away ... or is he?

" _Plasma ...can arise from a huge voltage difference between two points..."_

The jolt of recognition – they are no longer the men they once were. Avon faces Blake over the barrel of his gun. The jolt as the gun recoils, as realisation dawns; no longer the same men, but the feelings remain. The jolt as trust and love and hope die with the man in his arms.

" _...no definite shape or volume..."_

Things fall apart – blood and bodies and Blake fall – and the centre can no longer hold.

Avon smiles.

" _... at very high temperatures, such as those present in stars; it is assumed that essentially all electrons are free..._

With a whirr and a click, the computer falls silent.


	13. Cause for Celebration

_A/N - word prompt 'Solstice'_

 **Cause for Celebration**

Anlou trudged along the crumbling path taking care to avoid twisting an ankle in one of the large cracks that had developed. It had been a long time since there had been money to spare for basic maintenance. The light was fading fast taking what little warmth there was with it and she shivered as she drew the thin cape tighter around her shoulders.

Tonight was the Solstice; the longest night, the coldest night. Even colder these days since the weather control satellite had failed. The house would be cold as well. Supply ships had been sporadic and there had been no fuel cells available for the heating for months. Vegetation was sparse on this harsh planet - what little they had was too precious to burn. After all, they needed to eat.

Anlou's shoulders sagged. Tonight was traditionally a time of feasting and celebration but the meagre contents of her bag were hardly a banquet and there was nothing to celebrate. Their only child had died a half-year ago because they'd run out of the medication he needed and her husband Nyle was out of work. The mines had been flooded and the equipment damaged in the huge storms that had torn through the valley during the third quarter. The planet's economy relied upon the valuable minerals they mined and now they had nothing to trade. Their once thriving community was now trapped in poverty and it was becoming doubtful that any of them would live to see summer again.

She paused in the antechamber trying to summon the will to put a smile on her face. Nyle was depressed enough without her adding to his misery. As she raised her hand to lift the latch, the door flew open.

"Anlou! Have you heard the news? "

Anlou's forced smile became a circle of surprise. Nyle's gaunt features were softened by a huge grin and his sunken eyes were alight with excitement. He grabbed her bag and her free hand and drew her into their cramped living quarters. He continued his lively stream of chatter as he settled her on the bench, still holding her hand.

"I couldn't believe it when Loeb came banging on the door. I thought he was raving. It wasn't until I saw the bulletin playing at the Meeting House and the Councilman confirmed it that I finally believed him."

Nyle took a breath and Anlou seized the opportunity to ask;

"What news?"

"It's over! Blake's dead. Shot by one of his own in some lawless hellhole. Think of it, Anlou! With no Blake to unite them, the terrorists will go back to fighting amongst themselves. No more raids on supply ships, no more disrupted communications. With no distractions the Federation can focus on expansion. They'll need our minerals and will get the mines working again. Just imagine!"

Anlou did and felt the tentative flutter of hope rising. They had something to celebrate, after all.


	14. Nocturnal Emissions

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _Travis raised his arm and rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. The green gem began to glow. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. To hell with Servalan's orders – nothing could stop him now._

 **Nocturnal Emissions**

Travis raised his arm and rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. The green gem began to glow. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. To hell with Servalan's orders – nothing could stop him now.

It was the only time he could feel that arm these days, the only time it was truly part of him. The sensation matched the excitement building in his body. He could feel the subtle thrum of power running along his left arm as the laseron destroyer charged. tune, and he was whole once more.

Travis strode easily over the uneven ground, feeling tight leather stretch and pull as taut strong muscles worked, feeling powerful. He didn't need to get in so close, Blake was well within range, but he wanted –needed – to see.

To see the sweat on Blake's forehead, to see the whites of his eyes as they widened in fear, to see him tremble. And he wanted to hear Blake's final pleas, to imprint them on his brain so they could be savoured again and again. And he wanted smell the fear, taste the victory.

It had been a tremendous duel but now Blake lay broken amid the boulders. Hs hand was outstretched trying to grab for the teleport bracelet that was inches from his fingertips. His eyes darted about, searching for the back-up that would not come. Travis kicked the bracelet further away, delighting in the look on Blake's face as he watched it land beyond his reach. And now the words came, Blake's last resort.

"It won't make any difference if you kill me, Travis. You'll not get the Liberator and others will come. They'll keep coming until you and your precious Federation are mere ashes and dust."

Travis snorted.

"Still preaching, eh? Save your breath. This is not about politics – this is personal."

Very personal.

Travis stepped closer; towering over the fallen man, swelling at the shadow of darkness and fear he cast. Nothing felt asl as good as this. To stand tall and proud with power coursing through his veins and circuits, his entire body charged with thrill and current. It was the perfect moment; lucid, loaded with anticipation and the exquisite tension of being primed and ready to fire. Focusing on Blake's eyes, now deaf to his pleas, consumed by the potency of this moment - Travis released the blast.

He shuddered a little and woke; sweat-damp sheets tangled around his scarred body and the scent of burning in his nostrils. The far wall bore another seared streak and he could hear the sound of footsteps running in the corridor. Travis covered the shreds of his dignity with a heavy coat of arrogance. He would need it as he faced concerned eyes that would look at a man once defined by his might only to see a warrior crippled by the loss of an eye and an arm, a loaded gun with the trigger removed. Half a man.

Travis went to answer the frantic knocking at the door and silently vowed:

 _If it takes all my life, I will destroy you, Blake. I will destroy you._


	15. Thaw

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _Soolin shifted her weight to the balls of her feet so her heels would not betray her presence as she moved along the walkway. Her goal was in sight – but reaching it undetected was going to be tricky._

 **Thaw**

Soolin shifted her weight to the balls of her feet so her heels would not betray her presence as she moved along the walkway. Her goal was in sight – but reaching it undetected was going to be tricky. Stealth came naturally to her; killing efficiently required control and concentration, a heightened awareness of her surroundings and the rapid recalculation as circumstances changed.

Yes, it was tricky but she had the skills. The next stage was difficult but she was intelligent, observant and dexterous. Her nimble fingers worked in mimicry of the actions she had seen Vila perform and soon the prized object was in her grasp.

Now for the third stage of the operation. Naturally laconic with an icy intimidating manner meant she was rarely subject to idle curiosity. She thought she saw Avon's eyes narrow momentarily as she dismissed her late arrival with a flippant comment.

The return to Xenon Base seemed longer than the outward journey and twice she made an excuse to check the cargo, to check the crate that concealed her stolen prize. It was with a dry mouth and a racing pulse that she performed her final duties with perfunctory care and escaped, at last, to the solitude of her cabin.

Perhaps her hand trembled as she withdrew the treasure from the bag, perhaps her eyes misted as she gazed upon its beauty. Perhaps she sighed as her hand curled around its familiar shape and her fingers touched soft natural bristles and heirloom silver inlaid with semi-precious stones.

If so, she did not notice. A cold, ruthless killer looked into the mirror and stroked the antique brush through her hair. A little girl looked back; an innocent with a song in her soul, wonder in her mind and love in her heart. A little girl whose mother brushes her hair every night before bed.


	16. The War for Independence

_A/N - word prompt 'Independence'_

 **The War for Independence**

Blind, deaf and dumb, hopelessly numb,

He lived a regular, Federated lie.

The drug dome shattered, revealing their plight

Eyes opened, the Messiah saw the light.

Renewed, reborn, a damned trinity:

Blake, the Cause, a quest for Liberty. 

The Cause brightly burned, all rightly yearned

Of the dreams that would make them more.

One by one they were drawn, moth-like they fluttered,

Ignited by the sparks of the passion he uttered.

Seven knights sailed the heavens of sin,

Crusading, believing in him. 

Trust me, he taught. Loyalty, he wrought

As with gossamer and steel he bound them.

They blazed and battled til one died for the Cause.

Martyr or sacrifice? Guilt inside him gnaws,

Twisting into hate

And a burden too great. 

The Father now gone, time for another to don

The mantle that - once holy - fits poorly.

The Son, in silken strands tangled,

Fights and strains, morality mangled.

He walks tall, talks tough

Knowing he's not good enough. 

The soul-less wail, the red ghastly veil

And the soldiers of darkness gathered.

The broken Cause bloodied the ground

Straddled by Lucifer - now crowned.

Avon smiled. At last he could see:

Only in death are all men free.


	17. Dressed to Kill

_A/N - complete this scene:_

 _Tarrant bristled. He couldn't believe the nerve of the man! He stiffened his spine, threw back his shoulders and injected every ounce of arrogance he had acquired as a Federation officer into his voice._

 **Dressed to Kill**

Tarrant bristled. He couldn't believe the nerve of the man! He stiffened his spine, threw back his shoulders and injected every ounce of arrogance he had acquired as a Federation officer into his voice.

"No! I've backed down time and time again but you've taken it too far this time, Avon."

He held his breath waiting for Avon's reply, steeling himself in anticipation of a scathing tirade. Avon glanced up from the console, quirked an eyebrow before returning his attention to the recalibration of the long range sensors. Tarrant exhaled slowly, reigning in his temper and lowering his tone.

"I've accepted the Liberator's not my ship – "

A smile twitched at Avon's lips but that was not the reaction Tarrant was seeking. He forged on.

" – and that Vila and Cally would rather follow the devil they know than one they don't so you've got the backing of the crew."

Avon nodded without looking up and Tarrant resisted the frustrated urge to stamp his foot.

"Dayna's young and naive but I'm not. You can't tell me how to fly a ship or fire a gun and you certainly can't tell me what to wear!"

Avon's head shot up and his eyes flashed. He stepped slowly down from the flight console and, with his hands clasped behind his back, circled around the younger man. He eyed the dark blue leather tunic with its neat line of metal studs decorating the neckline and shoulders and running down the length of the arms. Tarrant's stomach fluttered nervously but he stood his ground under the intense scrutiny. It was now or never.

"It looks much better on me..."


	18. Torture

_A/N - word prompt 'Heat'_

 **Torture**

The heat is searing and relentless, draining what remains of his strength and leaving him wracked with pain. Feeble and diminished, Avon doesn't think he can endure another day. His infamous will to survive is withering under this latest assault on his body.

He grimaces as another blast of heat rolls over him and he bites back the urge to cry out. Beads of moisture decorate his brow with the effort. The droplets swell then run in rivulets down his face to gather in the three-day growth of his beard. Sweat darkens his hair further, flattening the strands to his scalp and soaking the bunk. His thin, clammy tunic clings to his scorched skin and the damp cover twists about his legs as he tosses and turns in a desperate attempt to find some respite from the sweltering onslaught. He is sodden but the moisture does nothing to cool the blistering torment.

He has descended to the seventh circle of Hell, he is immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire and his mind is ravaged with tortured visions of Inferno. His eyes are full of grit and feel too large for their sockets and his throat is raw as if he has been screaming for hours. He moans; the sound creating piercing reverberations in his head. It is a demonic counterpoint to the hollow nauseating thud already well established there and his skull continues its vice-like grip on his brain.

He squints against the abrupt intrusion of harsh flourescent light that cauterizes his retinas.

"So, how are we today?"

He winces. The words are red- hot needles sending savage stabs of pain through his temples although his persecutor's tone is light and airy. Her smile is sunny and wide, her clothes crisp and fresh and he hates her. Hot tears prick his eyes as he admits defeat. His tongue rasps over his cracked lips which split further as he utters a feeble croak that contains only a mere trace of his usually caustic wit.

"We... are dying."

Cally's retort adds to his torture.

"Don't be such a drama queen, Avon. You've only got the flu."


	19. The Seeds of the Future

_A/N - word prompt 'Harvest'_

 **The Seeds of The Future**

Telma loved her job.

She bustled into the lab every morning, a wiry woman with a chaotic crown of grey curls. Her movements were as quick and brisk as her manner; life was just too full of potential to waste time on pleasantries.

Her staff were accustomed to her ways and kept small talk to a minimum. Jayden presented her with the datapad and the briefest of nods. He got down to business.

"A fresh batch last night, ma'am. Looks promising..."

Telma didn't bother to reply, she was already heading to the storage bay. She faltered briefly against the blast of icy air as the door opened and her eyes squinted against the harsh blue-tinged light. After donning a mask and pulling on gloves, she grabbed a probe and opened the first bio-container.

With disappointment Telma slammed the lid closed again. Just another trooper. She hoped Jayden hadn't been misleading her. Troopers were good stock material but couldn't be described as 'promising'. Her irritation grew as the next container revealed another generic grunt. Gritting her teeth she moved onto to the third. Ah! Now this was much more like it...

She scrutinised the body ignoring the strong musculature, heavy features and dark curly hair but noted the fresh destruction of the abdominal area and the facial scars denoting previous injuries. In times past, that would have been a tragedy; precious organs rendered useless. Still, the butchers would have some material to work with. She, however, was interested in things more subtle than gross anatomy. She inserted the probe, incised a small amount of tissue and fed it into the analyser. While the machine hummed and data scrolled across its screen she moved onto the next container.

Promising, indeed! Another male with a body that appeared intact but she was aware of the internal damage that blasters wreaked. The features were fine and sculptured and Telma raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Looks could be deceiving but if the genetic material proved useless for her project, at least the finished result could present a pleasing appearance. She thrust in the probe and drew out a further sample.

The day progressed quickly. Jayden had been correct. Four males and two females, one even with rare dark skin. The butchers would be pleased – it was difficult to find matches for that genetic combination. Telma was pleased as well. She reviewed the analysis, for once still as she contemplated the results, her eyes alighting on the key findings. There was a wealth of genetic variance here, untainted by generations of drug suppression and indoctrination. Her predecessors had perfected the ability to create offspring with tailored physical appearance and attributes but her life's work had been in identifying the chromosome combinations that led to personality.

With today's bountiful harvest, oh what children she could create!


	20. Soul Music

_A/N - Complete this scene:_

 _Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crewmates revealed she was the only one who could hear it._

 **Soul Music**

Cally frowned and rubbed her temples. There was that sound again but a quick glance around the flight deck at her crewmates revealed she was the only one who could hear it. Tiredness, it was just tiredness. They'd been at their stations for hours trying to navigate their way through the combined danger of an asteroid field and frequent Federation patrols.

The humming continued.

At first she'd barely been aware of it. She'd banged the console a couple of times, thinking that a loose connection was vibrating. It prompted a snarky remark from Avon about percussive maintenance being the common approach of the ignorant.

Now she'd noticed the humming, it was proving difficult to ignore.

Cally adjusted the headphones and fiddled with the settings. She was monitoring the communications between pursuit ships, trying to glean any information that would help the Liberator crew find a safe route. In the background, behind the call signs and coded exchanges, she could hear the hum.

'Zen, scan these channels. Look for sources of interference, maybe a large metallic mass or an energy field.'

'Problem, Cally?'

Blake moved over to her station and studied the instruments. Cally switched the channel from headphones to the speakers and various crackly voices could now be heard.

'There. Do you hear it?'

Blake listened for a moment then shook his head.

'Maybe you've got a defective headset.'

Zen provided confirmation.

\+ No interference detected. +

The proximity alarm sounded, drowning out the humming temporarily but it didn't hide Jenna's mutter comment.

"Defective head, more like."

Her words lingered in Cally's head as she flopped onto her bunk, exhausted but too distracted by the humming to sleep. It would be easier to ignore if it was just a monotonous tone but there were patterns of pitch and volume that were almost...speech? Song? Like skittish insects, the harder Cally tried to pin down the content the more elusive it became.

Cally lay in the dark, listening. Hoping it was a mind companion to share the loneliness of exile. Fearing an unscrupulous manipulator who would prey on her needs. Dreaming of communion. Dreading madness.

All the while, the humming provided a soundtrack to her thoughts.

The morning sounds of the usual light-hearted debate into what constituted a proper breakfast greeted Cally. She reeled against the onslaught of noise and decided to give the meal a miss. Instead she grabbed Orac and headed for the medical bay. She needed answers.

Orac made the usual protests about trivial matters but finally relented. It ran various scans, interrogated her extensively on the phenomenon and then fell silent, apart from its usual soft buzzing noise, as it analysed the data. As she waited, Cally's fingers tapped out a rhythm on the counter. She had just realised that her fingers were moving in time to the humming when Orac delivered its diagnosis.

'Tinnitus.'

'Tinnitus?'

'The term given to hearing sounds from within the body rather than from an outside source. It is rarely a sign of-'

Cally removed Orac's key, cutting him off mid-explanation. Her face took on a thoughtful expression as she turned it over in her hands.

'Hmm, tinnitus. So the noise is mine.' Her hands stilled and a smile slowly spread across her face. 'Then it can be anything I want it to be.'


	21. Nature of the Beast

_A/N - Word prompt 'Animal'_

 **Nature of the Beast**

A new sensation interrupted Og's study. The glint of dewdrop on a freshly unfurled bud had caught his attention. He had paused to reflect on the way the droplet magnified the intricate pattern of veins running through the delicate green leaf. Fascinated he had stilled, concentrating his focus through his horns and holding his breath. He had no words for the things he could sense although others had named them meiosis, osmosis and other things ending in -is. He was only aware of movement and patterns and the interconnectedness of things. The moment held him rapt and he grunted at the harsh intrusion of the new sensations.

The world spun and blurred as he adjusted his focus which settled on a vista no less beautiful than than the microscopic one that had entranced him. Leaves formed a colourful patchwork canopy overhead, pierced by golden rays of sunlight and stirred by a soft breeze. The leaves shook as birds swooped and small rodents scampered along branches. The air was filled with rustle and chatter and chirps.

Og turned to locate the source of the strange sensation, his feet sending up rich organic smells and small insects scuttling. The sensation was coming from the Hurting Place. Og's skin twitched and his fur rippled. A beast lived there. A beast who slashed and burned its way through Og's being creating disharmony, dependency and alien needs. His Clutch had endured the same. They now fought with each other, ate flesh and uttered crude noises while their souls screamed.

Ah, there was the source of that sensation. A new beast, a dark-skinned female one. Perhaps she could end the abominations. Og tried to wrap his thick tongue around words he was not made to utter, the nuances of his natural communication now lost to him. A harsh grunt emerged from his lips. The she-beast tensed and Og could smell the adrenaline seeping into her sweat. Frustrated, anxious to make her understand, he tried to use gestures to clarify his meaning but his heavy hairy arms were as inadequate as his lips and tongue. Fear rose like a foetid cloud from the female and light and heat erupted from the silver tool in her hand.

Og roared in pain and frustration. They were all the same. Animals, just animals.


	22. Legends

_A/N - Word prompts 'Wise Men' and 'Gift'_

 **Legends**

Tarrant rose from his seat to face Avon across the flight console. He braced his arms on the desk, raising his voice.

'And I say we should return to Xenon Base and get some rest before heading off on another fool's errand.'

Avon leaned back in his chair. He looked more relaxed than he sounded.

'Are you implying I'm a fool?'

Zeona's death was too recent for Tarrant to be conciliatory.

'Wasting time and resources chasing after rumours of Blake makes you a fool.'

There was no humour in Avon's smile. He rose from the chair and leaned forward to mimic Tarrant's posture. Their noses were inches apart, their eyes locked.

'Well now, let's ask an expert,' Avon said. 'Vila!'

Vila jumped and spilt his drink. He was starting to hate Avon's voice. It reminded of that awful shuttle ride. His eyes flicked nervously from Avon to Tarrant and back to Avon again. He'd lost faith in Avon, he'd never trusted Tarrant and anything he said would be wrong. Slave's obsequious tones broke the impasse.

'Please forgive my interruption, Masters, but I would be remiss if I did not mention the unusual energy field I am detecting.'

The crew turned towards the Scorpio's computer in time to see the teleport activate. A box of similar size to the one that had held Muller's head appeared. Tarrant moved to investigate but Avon caught his arm.

'Now you're being the fool,' he said. 'Orac, analyse the object in the teleport bay.'

The computer hummed and flashed and declared the object benign. Tarrant reached out a long finger and flipped open the box lid. Nothing happened. He took a cautious look. Vila called out;

'What's inside, Tarrant? You know I hate surprises.'

Tarrant opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. He tried again. Nothing came out. Avon impatiently pushed Tarrant aside and peered into the box. He couldn't see anything. Nothing at all, not the box, not Tarrant, not Scorpio's flight deck. Avon squeezed his eyes shut then opened them. The blackness remained. Vila saw Tarrant's mouth open and close like a fish and Avon's hand reaching out blindly.

'Oh, come on! Stop mucking about. What's in the box?'

He barged past his crewmates, his curiosity raging, and pulled a clay ornament from the box. It depicted three humanoid creatures with their hands covering parts of their heads. Mouth, eyes and ears. Vila looked at Tarrant's mouth flapping and his urgent hand gestures. He watched Avon stumble over a chair and realised he hadn't heard the crash or Avon's inevitable curse. The ornament slipped from his hands and he didn't hear it smash.

* * *

The crew were despondent. It was their last meal at Xenon Base. When they had finished eating they would set the charges. Tarrant toyed with his soup and listened to his colleagues speculate about Servalan's next move. Dayna made a ridiculous false assertion about Federation tactics that Tarrant had to correct. His lips formed the words but no sound came out. He reached for the notepad and scribbled a couple of words, then he slammed the stylus down and stormed out of the room.

Soolin picked up the notepad and raised her eyebrows.

'I think Tarrant's a bit upset.'

She showed the message to Dayna and they both laughed, glad to have something to lift the mood. They began a giggly discussion about the worst curses they'd heard. Vila sipped his water and watched them. It was pointless trying to join in. By the time they'd written down or pantomimed the words the joy would have gone. He couldn't hear the clatter of his spoon as he dropped it into the dish, or the scrape of his chair on the floor. He didn't hear his friends calling out to him as he left.

Soolin turned to Avon.

'Are you going to flounce out as well?'

Avon wiped the soup from his chin.

'I think not. The dramatic effect is lost when you have to grope for the door.'

His hand dropped from his chin to the table. As if to prove his point, it landed in his soup. Avon's shoulders sagged.

* * *

The klaxons blared and the emergency lights glowed red.. The Scorpio crew huddled together in the main tracking gallery. Vila was calm. He was deaf to the sirens and his colleague's frantic shouts. He was free from all the sounds that once sent him into a panic. Because he was calm, he was the first to spot Blake.

Tarrant recognised the bounty hunter who pulled him from the wreckage of the Scorpio. He tried to shout out a warning but no sound came from his mouth. He tugged at Avon's sleeve.

Avon was blind to the changes in Blake, unaware of the gun in Blake's hand. It didn't matter that he could not see. His ears still worked, he could still hear his old friend speak.

'Avon, I was waiting for you.'

He felt Blake's arms around him and returned the hug.

* * *

The legends tell of a great leader, a hero, who took on a mighty empire and won. They tell of the two warrior women who fought by his side. And they tell of the three wise men who showed him how to build the new world. The patient man who couldn't speak, whose every word was carefully considered. The tranquil man who couldn't hear, who paid attention to the smallest detail. And the generous man who couldn't see, who dreamed up alternative visions.


End file.
